


Cops and Robbers

by ember_alda



Series: Realms of Influence [13]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enemies, Gen, Italian Mafia, Police
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_alda/pseuds/ember_alda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamamoto is a police detective and Squalo is a don’s second hand man. No swords, just guns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cops and Robbers

“…now. No, no…already moved all the relevant…ok. I can keep…here.”

Squalo pushes open the dully painted door despite the one sided conversation that floated out from the enclosed room. Inside, a suited back is turned towards the battered but expensive coffee maker sitting on the counter in the room. The upper pantry was utilized by all the members who had to stay on for late nights and red-eye shifts. Yamamoto had been raking up the long days these past few weeks so Squalo wasn’t surprised to see him brewing up a cup and using the time alone to chat on the phone.

At the sound of the entrance creaking open the younger man turns around, raising a hand minutely in greeting, gesturing that he was going to wrap up his conversation. 

“Yeah, it’s ok. Just don’t forget, I don’t want you to leave anything behind like last time. Alright. Bye.”

A snap sounds out in the room as Yamamoto sighs and closes his phone, slipping it into his pant’s pocket to gather up the plastic stirrer on the table and his packet of sugar.

“Can’t fucking believe you’re here again.”

A sheepish smile is the only response as he rips open the sugar packet. “You say that like you’re not here just as long and just as often. I guess I shouldn’t be complaining, after all if this goes through everyone will be rolling in it.”

He doesn’t even jerk at the sound of the chair in Squalo’s way being kicked across the room, the older assassin stalking up to the counter and leaning on it, flopping his elbows to either side of him as he stares up distastefully into the ceiling. Yamamoto is used to the other man’s abruptness by now.

“Bastard boss is overworking us because he knows everyone wants this deal to go through and it’s not like we get an hourly wage. Bet you’re biting at the bit for more money to get the rest of that down payment for your new apartment.”

“Haha, you heard that?” Yamamoto sips at his coffee again, warming his hands on the hot ceramic. He supposed it was obvious what the conversation was about, after he’d mentioned it to Squalo last week.

“It’ll be nice to be in the clear once this is over and me and Haru get settled into the new place.”

Squalo pushes himself up and, grabbing another cup on the metal rack, tosses it to his fellow family member. 

“I don’t want to hear you harp any more on your stupid broad, I hear enough of it every week. Just get me a cup, I’m parched and you’re the errand boy around here.”

Yamamoto turns around, laughing as he gets the pot and starts pouring it in the mug. He hears Squalo shifting around, pressing up next to him trying to rummage through the cupboards for the dry creamer. When he turns to tell him they’re on the right side, there’s a gun an inch away from his head. His eyes go wide and his muscles cramp, stiffening in shock as he wills himself not to panic.

“W-wha-”

“Drop the fucking act, besides the fact that ‘ _Haru_ ’ and you live in an abandoned cleaners shop, how you got your nose all up into this weapons deal these past few months so easily clued me in, _Carabinieri_.”

“I don’t know wha-”

Squalo doesn’t even hesitate as he grinds his gun in closer to the traitor’s temple, finger about to shoot his gun without hesitation.

The rigid press of gunmetal against his back is what stops him from squeezing that thin sheeted trigger. Yamamoto doesn’t move his hand from the coffee cup on the counter, he knows for a fact that his gun is aimed straight at Squalo’s heart even from behind, well versed in the deadly vocabulary of vital hits. When they both acknowledge the end game check, Yamamoto slowly turns his head from the coffee maker and looks into the assassin’s eyes, hand lifting from the warm cup to drop quietly by his side.

Slowly, a small, vicious smile paints its way across Squalo’s lips, pearl white teeth peeking out from a thin cut of lips as if ready to free the mocking laughter within. 

“I could tell by that cold, careless way you held your gun that you’d killed someone before. Like you’re not afraid to take someone’s life if you had to- just rip it out from them if they get in the way and shoot them dead. You’ve got a soul of a killer, even on the other side.”

The dead on gleam in Yamamoto’s eyes isn’t fazed, he knows exactly what kind of game is being played and those words sprouted from this vicious, mindless killer don’t thrill him, not even with the cold metal pressed right against his temple. He feels nothing in his veins but supreme calm. Yamamoto is not a man to fear something when it’s staring him straight in the eye.

“I’m not the same. You think you see something similar in me to you, but you and I are two completely different sides. There’s no purpose for you, there’s no reason beyond money and orders, and loyalty to a man without any morals or reason behind his actions is not loyalty to anything but your own selfishness.”

“Don’t play this fucking game. Semantics is all you vermin ROS dogs ever know. Allowing exceptions for death and playing at nice, what’s the difference if in the end there’s one dead body for money, and one dead body for the job? You might as well be an assassin for all you played the part.”

The grind against his temple is insistent; Yamamoto stays stock still and simply edges his gun closer into Squalo’s spine as the other man leans in close, ends of his mouth tugging wider as the long hair drifts forward and brushes into the detective’s sleeve.

“Don’t tell me blood doesn’t burst into your heart faster when someone slips the edge and a bullet flies near your face, don’t tell me your hand doesn’t itch for the trigger and you can’t hear anything but the pulse inside you ripping into your skull, that your body isn’t ready to split into a thousand pieces if it doesn’t move, _right now_.”

It’s hard to deny the theme being drilled into his bones when Squalo is inches away from him, when they’re pressed this close and they’re about to blow each other’s brains out and Yamamoto for all his famed calm in infiltration, can’t help but feel the press of adrenaline spiking up in his vessels in a fake high. Despite this, he smiles with eyes clear and painless as he leans into the dig of metal at his temple, lowly mouthing the words that were at the core of him.

“See, I’m not a person who can live without motivation. One fight at a time, Squalo, is all you can handle. That’s pretty pathetic, that the only time you’re going to live is those few minutes you get to fight. I’m living every day of my life _just fine_. Cheap thrills can’t move me.”

They can hear the sounds now, of people banging up the stairs and random shouts. Feet moving in unison and shots ringing out in the air around them come muffled to their ears from the floors below. The noises rise in crescendo as the heavily armored detail gets closer to this hidden, vacuum filled space where two men are paused at a stand-still. They both know that it’s going to be close, this time. This near Yamamoto, Squalo can hear the fast pitch of soft breathing as thud by thud, the contingent of faceless men fly nearer to their space.

“Is it a cheap thrill? I’m hearing different, _dog_. It’s end game- who’s going to take out who first?”

A laugh escapes the detective’s lips despite the drama of this last meeting, it bubbles out of him unwarranted and Yamamoto can’t help the alert shine in his eyes as he stares death in the face. “I don’t know, I don’t think either of us are going to win.”

Bangs ring out in deafening tones as the door arches centimeter by centimeter inward, the force of a group trying to tear it down warping the frame. Neither of them knows who it is, the Carabinieri or the mafiosos, and for a split second, both of them tilt their eyes to stare at the door that seals their fate.

Darkly dressed men burst inward wearing flak jackets marked with the ROS acronym on the back, flooding the room and swinging the tips of their Beretta assault rifles at the center where Squalo and Yamamoto were pressed in stalemate.

“Step away from Officer Yamamoto, now!”

There’s nothing but a smile in the detective’s face of supreme confidence as Squalo, with a small lift in the corner of his lips, acknowledges the end game. It was as if there was no doubt in the detective’s mind that the unpredictable would fall to his side. The clack of a gun being dropped from the assassin’s hand is all the signal the officers need before swarming on Squalo and forcing him down to the ground, where he still, with cold unrepentant eyes, stares Yamamoto in the face. 

Even hours after the take down concluded, Yamamoto could still feel the blood pumping fast as the wind in his veins. If anything, the mafioso sliced the difference thinner than it was before.

 

THE END 


End file.
